Pastoral VI

     (The Arrow)

Grass River, cradled
by the lens’ shadow, telescopes

without terminus. Sun-balmed
frog-pads and saw-grass. Immobile: No fish

or loon intrudes. You were impossible
too: asleep by the stove, oiled

perfectly derelict. Was it the year
a mother told me she’s no longer

a mother? Motoring through
the swamp to the last extant shack

was like ambling off the edge
of the world, she said, and there

you were: auxiliary, spectral, assuming
no particulates, unpricked

by light. In the distance we can’t see,
no kestrel wheels through the palms, no bird

behind a bird, no intelligence chucking rocks
to prove itself apart from the proper

accident. E.g., a woman who is beautiful.
A pleasant place to gaze on.